Red Buttons
by coffeeplease
Summary: JoshDonna deal with Gaza one night at a Holiday Inn. Feedback makes me giddy!


It was eleven at night and he was busy with buttons. Twenty-thousand sent to Ohio, all saying Santas for President. Maybe some department store would buy them, Ronna had said. For the Christmas season. Josh had banged his head against the table until he was sore and was in his hotel room, writing an e-mail to the button people carefully explaining the difference between "o" and "a." An e-mail with only eleven expletives that the spell check didn't recognize. He probably shouldn't have hit send, but he figured there were many other button manufacturers in America that would be happy for his business and who also knew their vowels.

He had PBS on mute and wasn't paying attention to the television set. It was in between programming and they were using this time to advertise other programming. Fleeting images, Josh saw when he glanced up. A goldfish jumping into a puddle. An African-American woman smiling broadly. Peter, Paul and Mary.

Josh had just closed Outlook and was about to get ready for bed, early for the campaign trail. His eyes darted to the television set and there she was.

Still pictures, all black and white. She was smiling in most of them, wearing a large hat. They were shuffling through them so fast he couldn't tell where she was, but then there was a shot of her with her hand on an SUV door. Her smiling out of the window, being driven away from the photographer, the landscape obviously a desert.

Josh's dinner was inching up his throat and his eyes were glued to the television, even though there was a voice inside his head telling him that seeing this was not at all beneficial for his mental health. Look away, change the channel, turn the goddamn television off, it said. Don't keep watching.

And all of a sudden, like "The Wizard of Oz" there was color. A kaleidoscope. Twisted black metal, simmering beige sand, soldier's uniforms and fire that was blinding and hot and Josh could feel it all over his body. He couldn't hear the shouts in a foreign language or the sound of the explosion and he was grateful. The ringing in his ears would do just fine.

He recognized Colin running towards the smoldering vehicle and for a second, just a nanosecond, he was grateful that Colin was there, at the explosion. Josh knew that he himself would have ran faster, wouldn't have let the soldiers stop him, would have thrown himself on the charred beast and ripped away the metal until she was free of it's confines. He would have developed superhuman strength. He would have, he would have, he would have.

All he could do a year later in the hotel room was throw up. And even that reflex was stuck somewhere in his throat. Josh couldn't run, couldn't move, couldn't blink. Another voice in his head, different from the first one, kept him sane by repeating the same mantra. She's okay now, she's safe, she's in the Best Western across town. She's okay now, she's safe, she's in the Best Western across town.

The television camera crew, a safe distance away from the wreckage, recorded Colin as he lifted his camera and began snapping pictures. Josh's muscles relented and he lunged at the television, trying to push his hands through the screen, wrap them around that Irish neck. But he stopped mid-flight as Colin's handiwork flashed up on screen.

Her face, all black and white and red. Upside-down and all wrong. She's not okay now, she's not safe, she's not in the Best Western across town. She's on the television and she's dying. She's upside-down and her face is bleeding and Josh's dinner was all over the carpet of the Holiday Inn.

In big red block letters, the television showed him no mercy. Nightmare in Gaza: The Attack On The CODEL. A Special PBS Report.

He slammed his fist against the off button.

She was running all kinds of red lights.

He hadn't been very coherent on the phone. He had switched rooms, she had gathered, because he had been sick in his old one. He had asked her to write down the new room number twice, on two separate pieces of paper. Just in case she lost one, he had sobbed. She wouldn't have to waste time asking at the front desk.

The message she had received loud and clear between disjointed phrases and cries was that she needed to get to him, now. She needed to get to him a half-hour ago. He had pulled himself together enough to explain that something about the CODEL had been on the television and he had seen... she hadn't understood what he was saying. But she could guess. Icy fear gripped her.

"I'm coming... I'm coming" She kept repeating to herself, gunning the engine through another yellow-then-red light.

Her hands would be shaking if she wasn't gripping the steering wheel so tightly. Hadn't really bothered to explain to Will what she needed the campaign's car for, just that she needed it, now. Looking back, maybe she had mumbled something about "family emergency." It didn't really matter.

Donna didn't think twice about what she was doing. Professional independence she had needed; the personal unfortunately was interwoven with the professional and perhaps she hadn't really been fully cognizant of it until it was too late and she was in New Hampshire wearing a Russell button. Guilt crowded her senses as she pressed her foot harder on the gas. Neither of them had healed very well after Gaza. Of course, neither of them healed very well after Rosslyn, either.

Her mind's eye saw a glass shatter and the sweet whine of cello playing the same few notes over and over again. She careened into the Holiday Inn parking lot.

The first words he said to her were, "I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

Oh good God, the walls that man could build.

"You didn't disturb me at all, Josh."

She couldn't guess his mood. Somewhere between tepid rage and utter annoyance. He let her into his new hotel room and just stood there, his arms hanging limp by his sides.

"No, I mean, I'm sure you've got a lot to do with the Russell campaign." He said "Russell campaign" as if he were saying "fucking fuck fuck." Donna shivered from the cold.

She bit off every awful rejoinder that came into her head. He had been sobbing on the phone. Gasping and hiccuping, his voice had been five-years-old and he had needed to see her now, please. Please, he had begged. She could still see the faint tracks on his cheeks. If he wanted to pick a fight, he could. He could pick at every scab she had, she wasn't about to show him even more blood than he'd already seen tonight.

Donna waited for him to speak.

His voice came out softer, but no less hostile. "You sure know how to pick the gomers, Donna. They give quotes to the Washington Post and make you cover for them, they read your diary after you lie to Congress and, oh yeah, they take pictures of you while you're strapped to an SUV dying. They really show their love for you, don't they?"

Pick away, Josh, she thought at first, pick away. Something he said then registered and she shivered again, not cold. "What do you mean he took pictures?"

Josh sat on the bed and ran his fingers through his hair, the anger dissipating slightly. "Colin took pictures, Donna."

"Took pictures?"

Violently, he stood up again. "Of you! After the explosion. In the car and you were bleeding and..."

He froze completely and didn't make a sound.

"Took pictures..." Donna mumbled and quickly sat herself on the floor before her legs gave out. Concern for Josh was pushed to the back of her head and a feeling of betrayal, hot and angry, rose up within her. She had assumed that Josh had seen the reel footage of the SUV blowing up, not a close-up shot of herself... dying. Dying and yet she hadn't died, she was right here, alive, in Josh's room at the Holiday Inn. Feelings foreign to her came to the surface and her skin was goose flesh.

For his part, Josh looked like he wanted to either be sick again or hit something. He was looking at her, but his eyes were somewhat blank. His skin, though was very pale. His voice was raspy when he spoke.

"He ran to the car but they wouldn't let him get near. So he started taking pictures. They showed him taking pictures on film and then they showed the pictures. I guess out of fucking respect for Fitz, DeSantos and Korb, they didn't show his pictures of them. Or maybe he didn't take any. Maybe he just focused his goddamn zoom lens on you. It's... that's really sick, Donna. Really, really sick and I..."

She interrupted him, her voice surprisingly stable. "You're a lawyer, Josh."

He was taken aback by the sudden change in topic. "Yeah, but you always remind me I'm not a real lawyer."

Donna's eyes were digging holes in the beige carpet. Counting the fibers, strand by strand. "Could I sue him?" She asked quietly.

Josh sat back down and again ran his hand though his hair. His voice quickly lost it's edge and he sounded almost timid, matching her frailty at this moment. "I don't think so. Since he took the pictures, I believe he owns all rights to them. I could try and buy them back from PBS..."

"That would be a lot of money, Josh."

"Whatever," he snorted. "I could try and buy them back. Or, I guess, you could sue him for emotional damages. But you didn't see the program..."

"You did," Donna said. "You... did."

"Yeah," Josh's voice was barely above a whisper. "I did."

Donna felt tears of rage and sadness hit her eyes. She didn't want to show Josh how she was feeling, but she couldn't keep a reign on something so enormous. He didn't look angry, perched on the bed, his hand grasping his neck and his eyes down. Beaten, he looked very beaten.

"I..." Josh sat up and folded his hands in front of him. "I'm sorry for disturbing you so late, Donna."

"I'm glad you did," she rasped. Even quieter still, she muttered, "What an ass-hole."

"Excuse me?"

"Not you... him." She let a tear fall down her cheek.

Josh looked contrite. "I really can't agree with you more, Donnatella."

He hadn't said her full name since she quit. Her head jerked up and she saw a faint smile on his face. Very quietly, he grabbed the kleenex box on the night stand and walked over to where she was sitting, on the floor with tears rolling down her cheeks. He pulled out a few tissues, handed them to her and sat cross-legged across from her.

In her mind, there were emotions she could name and some she couldn't. But the most familiar was the rage that was burning her right now. The same rage that was still smoldering in Josh; she could see it in his eyes. They didn't heal very well after these things. After Rosslyn, after the MS disclosure, after Zoey, after Gaza... and Colin and those producers at PBS, blissfully detached from the whole thing... the thoughts kept coming to Donna. Her hands balled into fists.

"I just can't believe there's nothing I can do. I'm the one whose dying in those damn pictures. I'm the one that got hurt. It's my face."

Josh stared off into the distance.

Donna continued talking. "I would rather have Cliff read every word of every diary I've written. That only hurts me. But this hurts my family, my friends, you... my God, what if my mother was watching? What about my nephew, whose four and wouldn't understand... I thought PBS would have more, I don't know, discretion..."

If she had raised her eyes from the carpet, she would have noticed Josh's hands shaking.

"There's got to be something I can do, Josh. Something I can..."

"Why did you quit?" Josh interrupted.

He was crying. He quickly grabbed some tissues from the box.

"Josh..." She couldn't, wouldn't, watch him cry. One-hundred and fifty two strands of fiber in the carpet, right in front of her.

"I keep losing you. I don't want to lose you. I did everything I could to prevent losing you. And it keeps happening again and again and again..."

"You haven't lost me."

He chuckled bitterly and sniffled. Tears were still in his voice. "Oh, but I have, Donnatella."

"You lost an assistant, you didn't lose me." The last part was said in a moan. They were both crying, near sobbing.

He moved so quickly she didn't even see. She wasn't looking anyway. He lunged for her, grabbed her hands, then her face. Forced her to look up at brown eyes rimmed with red and saltwater. His lips were quivering.

He sounded like he was being strangled. "I would never read your diary. I would never let you cover for my mistake. I would never, ever take pictures of you while you were...dy...dy...dying. Why did you leave me?"

She looked back at the ground again and then looked up. "Why are you comparing yourself to them?"

Taken aback, Josh let his hands fall to the floor.

Donna took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. "You were my boss, Josh..."

He interrupted, sounding angry, "Please don't tell me I was just your boss."

"Let me finish. Please, God, let me finish what I'm saying, Josh."

He looked at his hands.

"You were my boss and obviously there was a lot more to it than that. And you were part of my life, everyday, for almost eight years. And our...relationship... for eight years had boundaries because you were my boss. I know you would never do those things, Josh. You know that. So why compare yourself?"

Gently, he took her hand again. "Because they got to cross the boundary and I didn't."

Donna met Josh's eyes. Tears were still rimming both of their visions, but Josh's eyes were more filled with love than she had ever seen before. She had convinced herself that she was swimming in the sea alone; sure, he'd sleep with her if the circumstances were different, but she made herself believe he felt nothing more. Other people had encouraged her conviction. For a second, she was back in her turquoise gown with a binder on her lap and C.J. was telling her... but now there were three-hundred and fifteen strands in the carpet and she was wrong.

She spoke quietly. "But if we had crossed that line..."

"...I would have been no better than them." Josh finished for her.

She let her thumb begin to trace tiny circles on top of his. "You still would have been better."

They sat on the floor, holding hands, silent.

It was two in the morning at it was too late for her to drive back. That's what they told themselves, told each other. Nothing was going to happen, they repeated again as he handed her a pair of boxer shorts and t-shirt to sleep in. This night, of all nights, wasn't the night.

Josh found, though, that he couldn't let go of her. Legs touching, his arm around her waist and at one point he buried his face in her shoulder and let a few more tears slide out of his eyes. Worst part was over, the aftershocks still remained.

He eyed the clock as two-fifteen rolled around. There had been no cameras at Rosslyn. Nobody had filmed the bullet enter him; there weren't any black and white shots of him and his pool of blood. He was grateful she was spared.

And then he wondered if she really was. She had been miraculous during his recovery. He had tried, God knows, to be there for her. But he felt he had failed; he felt he had failed before he had even stepped on that airplane for Germany. After, he took her to therapy when he had the time, stopped by her apartment when his schedule permitted... she moved in with him after he was shot. He had failed.

The guilt overtook him for a few minutes. He could never convince her that he thought of her first because she would know that it was lie. She deserved someone who did. The horrible Catch-22 of his last eight years laid out bare. No one could love her like he did, that much he was certain of, but she deserved so much more than what he was. A workaholic politician. A forty-something man with a bullet wound.

At the same time, he would never be able to sleep again without holding her. The skin of her legs against his, soft and hard at the same time. Her body was drugging him. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he couldn't give her up. Even if the better man came along, he would fight for her. He would rip away scorching metal. He would, he would, he would...

He would just have to stop failing her.


End file.
